


Anima-Gemella

by satincolt



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Falling In Love, Fluff, Includes Music, M/M, Mentions of Lotor, Romantic Comedy, Soulmates, Trans Keith (Voltron), Trans Male Character, Trans Shiro (Voltron), Useless Gay Keith, Violinist Shiro, mentions of Allura, musician au, pianist keith, side Allurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satincolt/pseuds/satincolt
Summary: In a world where you're born with a destiny that will lead you to your soulmate, Keith worries he'll never meet his when he wakes up in the middle of the night to find his destiny has changed.  All he can do is follow it and hope for the best.Ten years later, the last thing Keith expects is for the street violinist outside the concert hall where he works to be his soulmate, but love has a funny way of happening.Keith’s heart jumps into his throat as he plunges into the bass range of the piano, falling away almost entirely as Shiro takes the solo.  The music arcs off his bow in bright ribbons, sweeping victoriously through the concert hall.  It steals the breath from Keith’s lungs; he almost forgets to play when he looks over at Shiro, who is lost in the music.  His brows furrowed, eyes fixed on the page in front of him, his fingers flying across the neck of the violin and his bow spearing through the air with the finesse of a fencer’s rapier—the sight of Shiro hits Keith with a nearly physical force, ramming one all-consuming thought through his head:he is my soulmate.





	Anima-Gemella

**Author's Note:**

> The entire premise of this comes from one (1) small thought I had while listening to classical music on the way home from work, then it spiraled out of control into this monster. Why is it set in Boston? Idfk, I just miss the town. Why are they musicians when I myself do not play any instrument? Dunno, man, but it makes a good story! This is really meant to be read as a rom-com, so just sit back and enjoy and don't think about it too hard.
> 
> The soulmates idea is my own and I'm pretty proud of it because I haven't seen it anywhere else. Links to the "soundtrack" of this fic are embedded in the story, so open them in a new tab and listen as you go for the full effect, so you can hear what Shiro and Keith are playing :)

If you had asked Keith what he loved more than anything else in the world, he would have answered “flying” without hesitation.  That is, until he woke up one morning, age seventeen, and wanted nothing more than to play the piano.

Krolia woke up to Keith standing at her bedside, an unusual occurrence, and he was wide awake despite the early hour, wearing a look of troubled determination on his face.  “Keith?” Krolia rasped, sitting upright and pushing hair out of her eyes.

“I want to take piano lessons,” Keith said quietly.

“Alright,” Krolia answered slowly.  “Can this wait until after school?”

Keith shook his head mutely, biting his lip as if to hold in words he didn’t want to say.  Krolia reached out, putting a gentle hand on top of his head.  “What is it?”

“I don’t _want_ to play the piano,” Keith mumbled.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Krolia said.  She was almost wide awake now, worry and confusion and motherly instinct proving to be a better alarm clock than the one on her nightstand.

“If I take piano lessons…” Keith started, then paused to reconsider his sentence.  “I don’t _want_ … I mean, I _do,_ but I don’t…” Krolia let him find his words, and after several more aborted starts, Keith blurted, “how am I supposed to meet my soulmate if I don’t want to be a pilot anymore?”

Krolia let out a soft “ah” of sudden understanding, patting the bed beside her.  Keith clambered under the warm quilt, leaning back against the headboard with crossed arms.  “I thought for sure piloting was my destiny, but I had this dream where I was playing the piano, this song… it was a duet, and I knew my soulmate was playing the violin…”

“Sometimes destinies change,” Krolia said gently.  “It’s not a bad thing.  It means your lives have changed course.”

“I just…” Keith trailed off again, and Krolia reconsidered that maybe he’s not as awake as she first thought he was.  “I miss wanting to fly.  I miss it.”

“I know.”  Krolia wrapped an arm around Keith’s shoulders and pulled him into her side.  She glanced at the alarm clock and let a small groan of despair escape her.  “Let’s go back to sleep for an hour, then we can talk more over breakfast, okay?”

Keith nodded, sliding down further under the covers, and was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

By the end of the day, his first piano lesson was marked down on the calendar for the next week.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Keith pushes through the crowd in the car, parting people with his briefcase of sheet music.  The T is unbearably packed today for some reason, something he fumes about as he climbs the steps out of the Symphony station and starts towards the concert hall.  If it wasn’t in his nature to be early to everything, the hordes of bodies in the T definitely would have made him late.  Somewhere down the street, a musician is sawing away on an electric violin.

As he approaches the concert hall, the violin only grows louder.  It sounds like a simple adaptation of Lindsey Stirling.  Keith’s always liked the sound of violins, always wondered why it wasn’t his destiny to play one since he likes them so much, since his small hands would fit much better on the neck and bow of the small instrument rather than straining his fingers across a keyboard octave.  But destiny works in odd ways, and Keith has resigned himself to that.  The music dies suddenly enough that Keith notices, and he looks up to see one of the concert hall’s stewards, Pidge, talking with a very tall, very broad man holding a violin that looks comically tiny against his bulk.

Once he’s close enough, Keith overhears Pidge apologetically telling the man to leave, explaining that having street musicians too close to the concert hall distracts the musicians inside and the crowd outside.  The man seems understanding and surprisingly sober, which is rare.  He’s not bad-looking either; Keith does a quick scan and finds the violinist is _very_ much Keith’s type.  The violinist also catches Keith looking, his eyes breaking away from Pidge and meeting Keith’s just as Keith raises his gaze from the man’s bodybuilder-worthy pecs.

A guilty flush hits Keith’s face instantly but he keeps his expression still as a stone, still walking towards the entrance of the hall.  If he plays it cool, it’ll all be fine.  Then a big, beatific smile spreads across the violinist’s face, one of genuine happiness and crinkled eyes and white teeth.  Keith actually turns around suddenly to see if there’s someone standing behind him the man recognized, but no.  He frowns in confusion, turning back around to see the gorgeous violinist still smiling that gorgeous smile at him.  Then Pidge turns around, following the violinist’s gaze.

“Keith!” she calls out in greeting, raising a hand to him.  That snaps Keith out of his confused, aroused daze and he raises his briefcase at her.  He comes right up to her side to knock shoulders with her and try to subtly get a better look at this guy.  Up close, it becomes immediately apparent how much taller than Keith he is.  That only makes the monkey part of Keith’s brain rub its grubby little paws together gleefully and throw the mental image of climbing the man like a tree at Keith.  Keith actually shakes his head to try to clear the image.

“What’s going on here?” he asks, making the mistake of looking straight into the violinist’s bulging arm muscles where they cradle the sleek electric violin like a newborn.

“It seems I’m playing in a restricted area,” the violinist says in a voice so deep and smooth Keith can’t believe it’s real.  There’s an undertone of humor to his words, and when Keith musters the courage to glance at his Adonis-like face, a twinkle in his eye too.

“Yeah, you’d better pack up quickly.  Coran’s been known to run street musicians out of this entire block like a rabid dog,” Keith chuckles, surprising himself with an out-of-character level of humor towards a stranger.

“Give me a hand with the speaker?” the man asks, and it takes a second for Keith to realize it was a genuine request.  He hurries to hand his briefcase off to a bemused Pidge, then stoops to fumble with the electrical connection.

“I’m not familiar with electric instruments,” Keith apologizes.  He pulls the violin’s jack free of the speaker and passes it back up to the man, who takes it with the hand holding his violin.  It’s at that point Keith realizes his right arm is woodenly hanging at his side, still clutching the bow in perfect playing position.  It’s not at all like the other violinists in the orchestra, who twirl, tap, and bounce their bows when idle.

“Thanks,” the man says.  “I’m Shiro, by the way.  I’d offer to shake hands, but…” he shrugs, gesturing to the violin.

“Keith,” Keith says automatically, despite Pidge having loudly shouted his name just sixty seconds prior.  Shiro kneels down at that point and lays his violin to rest in its case, then pries the fingers on his right hand open and slides the bow free.  “Something wrong with your hand?” Keith asks tactlessly, before realizing that is an immensely rude question to ask a handsome stranger.

Luckily, Shiro doesn’t seem fazed by it.  “The cold isn’t very good for the robotics.”

“You picked a cold place to play,” Keith volleys back.  “Boston’s only decently hot for a couple of months, and then it’s just swamp-ass all the way down.”

Shiro laughs out loud.  “Thanks for the heads up.”

“It seems like you have this under control,” Pidge says suddenly.  Keith looks up, having almost completely forgotten her there.  She’s got a knowing grin on her face as she sets Keith’s briefcase on the ground and returns to the warm concert hall.

“Uh,” Keith says, momentarily lost.

“I think that’s it for me today, then,” Shiro says, mindfully fixing his robotic fingers around the handle of his violin case.

“Oh, yeah,” Keith straightens up at the same time Shiro does.  He has no clue how to properly say goodbye to someone he’s likely never going to see again, and falls back on his retail training from all his high school jobs.  “Have a good one.”

Shiro gives him a too-genuine smile and the way he says, “you too, Keith,” like he _really_ means it sets the butterflies in Keith’s stomach off like mad.

The way Pidge is smirking knowingly at Keith when he finally makes it into the concert hall leads him to believe he’s wearing a dumb expression on his face.  “What?” he deadpans in her general direction, wiping his expression flat.

“You like the cute busker,” she teases.

“He’s hot,” Keith retorts, as if that’s a defense, and he slides into the hall before Pidge can rib him more.  Keith is later than usual, but still earlier than the stragglers.  It’s a full rehearsal today and Keith quickly spies his favorite French horn player, Hunk, chatting with Shay the tuba player up on the stage.

“Keith!” Hunk waves him over through the noise of everyone warming up.  “I heard there’s going to be a string ensemble you’re gonna like.”

“What?” Keith is immediately caught off guard, his mind still on Shiro.  The possibility of Shiro walking into the concert hall bursts into his mind and he waves it away; the orchestra would have known if they were getting a new violin, and Shiro would’ve said something.

“Look like you’ve seen a ghost, buddy,” Hunk laughs.

“I, uh, no, I’m fine.  Met a violin busker out front and I was just surprised,” Keith answers, hoping he doesn’t sound too suspicious because he knows Hunk would latch on with the same sibling-like glee if he found out how much a mess Keith had been in front of Shiro.

“Huh,” Hunk responds, his curiosity piqued.  He doesn’t get a chance to prod, though, because at that moment, the concertmaster struts onto the stage, violin in hand.

“Good morning all,” Lotor announces.  “Shall we begin warming tuning?”

“Better go tune my piano,” Keith mutters, low enough for Lotor not to hear but Hunk and Shay still chuckle.  Keith plops down on his piano bench and presses middle C with a single finger right as Lotor bows an A.  Lotor flashes a glance at Keith, who shrugs innocently.

The rest of the orchestra files in shortly after that, Keith miming playing through a couple songs while Lotor and one of the oboes tune everyone.  He thinks of Shiro through the instrumental drone, wondering where he is now, what he’s doing, when he learned to play, if he’d ever want to play with Keith.  His thoughts are interrupted by Coran arriving and beginning pre-rehearsal announcements.  It’s at that point that Keith remembers Hunk told him to watch out for information about a string ensemble.

“Good morning everyone!” Coran says brightly to the musicians in front of him.  Keith turns around on his piano bench to watch the sprightly New Zealander talk.  His windmilling arms are as much a part of his speech as the words themselves.  “I have some exciting news for you string players!  I’ve decided we’ll do a piano-string ensemble for the holiday concert.  Now I know that means more work for you, Keith,” Coran points an entire arm over at Keith, the sole piano player, directing the attention of the orchestra towards him.  “But don’t worry!  It’ll be a very special concert and it’ll be worth it.  Auditions for the violin, viola, and cello parts will open next week.”

So that’s what Hunk meant.  A piano-string ensemble with Keith as the only piano player practically guarantees him solos at the extremely popular holiday concert.  Keith tunes the rest of Coran’s announcements out, knowing the part pertaining to him is over now.  The rehearsal begins in earnest not long after.

When practice ends for the day, Coran comes over to the piano, slapping a hand down on the polished ebony wood.  “Keith, my boy!” he says jovially.

“Coran,” Keith smiles, closing the cover over the keyboard.

“I hope you don’t feel too put-upon for this ensemble.  I would’ve told you in private beforehand, but…”

“It’s alright, I’m honored to be part of the ensemble.  Just as long as I get a solo or two,” he jokes.  Coran claps him on the shoulder.

“Of course!  In fact, here’s the sheet music for the songs.  I think you’ll find you’re featured quite prominently.  Have a good day, lad!”

Keith stuffs the music into his briefcase, vowing to look it over and start practicing that night.

 

 

The next morning, Keith gets off at the Symphony stop as usual and, as usual, there are no street musicians playing anywhere nearby.  Something in Keith is disappointed at the lack of violin music wafting through the air because it means no Shiro.  He stands still in the street for a moment, breathing in the icy-crisp air of another Boston morning.  People brush past him, each going about their days.  The breeze changes, ruffling up Keith’s hair and peeking cold fingers under his scarf.

[Then, _there,_ on the wind, comes a faint strain of a violin’s voice. ](https://youtu.be/q2cSyROtNmk) Keith whips around, looking down Huntington Avenue in the direction of the Museum of Fine Arts.  It’s impossible to see around the bend in the street, but something compels him in that direction.  As soon as he rounds the slight corner, he sees a tall, dark figure down the street standing in front of the MFA holding a violin.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, his feet carrying him faster towards the violin player.  He arrives breathless at the edge of Shiro’s crowd of onlookers.  Almost magnetically, Shiro’s eyes are drawn to Keith and he starts in on a new song.  It’s big and soaring and energetic.  Shiro plays with enthusiasm, his eyes only leaving Keith’s when he closes his eyes to lean into the music, his body swaying in time with the notes of his song.  He has everyone entranced.  Keith couldn’t place the song if he tried, he’s too lost in Shiro and the music.

The ending of the song comes with ringing silence and the sound of change cascading into Shiro’s open violin case.  Then Keith looks up to find Shiro focused on him with the softest of familiar smiles.  It makes Keith’s heart do a strange flip, that Shiro would look at him so fondly, like he was an old friend and not a stranger he’d had a five minute interaction with the day before.

“Am I still too close to your conductor’s territory?” Shiro asks him, grinning, when Keith steps closer.

“No, I just heard you playing and… came over,” Keith admits.  The way Shiro quirks one eyebrow tells Keith they both know he went well out of his way to come see Shiro.  Almost without realizing it, Keith reaches into his pocket and drops a handful of change into Shiro’s case.

“Why thank you,” Shiro says.  “Shall I play a song for you?”

“What do you know?” Keith asks, genuinely curious about Shiro’s repertoire.

“Most of the songs on the radio right now, some Mozart, some Haydn, some baroque.  I’d even de-tune for you if you wanted to hear the baroque.” Shiro winks.

Keith ponders it for a few moments, aware that he’s beginning to make himself late for rehearsal but it doesn’t seem to matter right now.  _“Galway Girl._ Can you fiddle?”

Shiro frowns seriously, looking deeply unsure, and bites his lip.  “I don’t know…  Let me try something.”  He bends down and pulls out a loop pedal from behind his speaker, taps his foot a few times, straightens up, and puts bow to strings.

[The infectious energy of the Gaelic tune flows perfectly from the speaker.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1wjrmzHLhY) Keith doesn’t even realize Shiro’s tapping the loop pedal to create a chorus of his own playing behind him.  Then he catches the mischievous grin on Shiro’s lips and has to laugh at the little jig the man is doing as he plays.  A new crowd coalesces, clapping along to the song.  Shiro raises his eyebrows and nods towards Keith meaningfully.

“I need your help if I’ve got a chance of pulling this off, I have no clue where I am in the song,” he calls to Keith, a pleading look in his eyes.  Keith puts his hands together, clapping with the crowd, but Shiro’s still giving him puppy-dog eyes and it’s at that point Shiro wants him to _sing._

“I don’t sing,” Keith shouts back.

“And I can’t play fiddle,” Shiro retorts.

Butterflies swarm Keith’s stomach.  He does know the lyrics to _Galway Girl,_ it’s one of his guilty-pleasure songs.  Shiro’s coming up on the chorus.  Keith sucks in a deep breath.

 _“She played her fiddle in an Irish band, but fell in love with an Englishman.  I kissed her on the neck and then took her by the hand, said I just wanna dance with my pretty little Galway girl,”_ Keith belts out over Shiro’s spritely playing and all of Keith’s trepidation vanishes when Shiro’s face lights up.  A smile finds its way onto Keith’s own face as he sings the rest of the song, to thunderous applause when Shiro finishes.

“You knew you could play that the whole time,” Keith accuses Shiro good-naturedly after he catches his breath.

“Guilty as charged,” Shiro grins.  It’s only at this point that Keith realizes, quite uselessly, that Shiro has been flirting with him for the past five minutes.  A blush hits his face.

“I’ve got to get to rehearsal, I’m going to be late,” Keith blurts.  Fortunately Shiro seems amused rather than insulted by Keith’s sudden flustered attempt to escape.

“I’m sure,” Shiro humors him, still wearing that kind smile with those soft eyes.

“I’ll see you around,” Keith says before making his ungainly exit.  He hears Shiro chuckle behind him as he retreats up Huntington to the concert hall.  The interaction stuffs his mind with buzzing cotton for the rest of the day, dominating his thoughts through rehearsal.

 

Wednesday morning sees Keith off at the MFA stop, two stops further down the Green Line than necessary, but it puts him right in front of Shiro.  Change in hand, Keith approaches the violin player and drops his tip into the case while Shiro is preoccupied playing to a group of giggling college students.  He finishes his song to them with a flourish and a deep bow and they clap enthusiastically, bouncing towards Keith to shower change into the violin case on the ground.  Shiro catches sight of Keith and something in his posture relaxes.

“Morning, Keith,” he says.  “Got a request?”

Keith can’t suppress the smile that blooms on his face.  “Surprise me.”

[Shiro nods, taps his loop pedal into position, then leans his cheek down onto the rest of his instrument.](https://youtu.be/IGgFiH9GrqM) The song that meanders forth is weaving and almost melancholy, until Shiro hits the loop pedal and begins the melody overtop.  It takes Keith a moment, but then the lyrics come to his lips automatically, mouthing them quietly.  “…all you have to do is stay a minute, just take a second, the clock is ticking, so stay…”

It’s a beautiful rendition by all accounts, more somber than the original, but transfixing to see Shiro fill all the parts with just one violin and one loop pedal.  And of course, Shiro has a smile for Keith at the end of the song.

“You chose that one on purpose,” Keith says.  Shiro shrugs.

“I plead the fifth.  Though as much as I’d love for you to _stay,_ you’re probably late, aren’t you?” Shiro teases.  Keith waves a hand at him.

“You’re sending me mixed signals,” he laughs as he walks away.  Three days of flirting with Shiro every morning.  Because Keith knows that’s what this has been this whole time:  flirting.  Yes, Shiro is _very_ attractive and clearly interested in Keith, but Keith has no idea what to do about it other than keep coming back each morning for his daily dose of the gorgeous violinist and his sweet smile.  It also feels like something deeper.  Being around Shiro is immediately easy in a way Keith is thoroughly unfamiliar with; it usually takes him months to warm up to someone to the point of joking and laughing like they do.

Pidge isn’t in that day when Keith arrives at the concert hall; she’s only a part-time steward.  Small mercies, because there’s no way Keith can shake the floating feeling Shiro’s left him with.  Keith quickly has to revise his assessment of “mercy” because Hunk and the first chair trumpet, Lance, are positively waiting to ambush him inside the hall.

“Pidge told us you’ve got a crush on a busker!” Lance practically shouts across the hall.

“Tact, Lance, have some!” Hunk chides him immediately, but rounds on Keith with bright eyes eager for details.

“Uh,” Keith flounders.  Yes, he supposes, this thing he has with Shiro could be called a crush, but that’s such a middle-school thing to say.  Besides, he never has been one to air his private life like Lance does so gleefully.  “It’s none of your business if I do or don’t.”

He seats himself at the grand piano and opens the cover, setting out the day’s sheet music on the stand.  Keith plays through several scales to warm up and hopefully create some sort of barrier between him and the Dynamic Duo approaching his piano.  It doesn’t work.  Lance drapes himself over the instrument like it’s furniture, shiny brass trumpet still in hand.

“Sounds to me like you do,” Lance sing-songs.  “Pidge said you’re getting off two stops down just to talk to him in the mornings.”

“I’m gonna kill her,” Keith mutters under his breath, stopping his scales.  “So I get off a couple stops further down.  The walk is nice.”

“In 40-degree weather?  Keith, you know we know you’re from New Mexico, right?” Hunk chimes in skeptically.  Keith ignores Hunk’s valid point.  He does hate the cold with a burning passion.

“Do you think he could be your soulmate?” Lance croons teasingly, leaning into Keith’s space.

“Speaking of, where’s yours?  She usually reins you in better than this,” Keith fires back.

“’Lura!” Lance leans back and calls over to the flute section, where his soulmate, the first-chair flute Allura, is talking with the second-chair flute Romelle.  She looks up at Lance’s call and waves to him, but doesn’t disengage from her conversation.

“Your soulmate’s a musician, right?  You think this busker could be it?” Hunk asks a little more quietly.

“Maybe,” Keith answers guardedly while Lance still seems preoccupied with Allura.  The preoccupation was a ruse, though, and Lance rounds on Keith with a resounding,

“Ha!” with the pointed fingers and everything.

“Did you never graduate high school?” Keith deadpans and for once, he’s actually grateful to see the pompous concertmaster enter the stage.  Hunk and Lance scatter back to their sections before Lotor, and rehearsal begins.

 

When Keith wakes up the next morning and checks the weather on his phone, he can’t keep the look of disgust off his face at the sight of the 28-degree temperature outside.  His bed is so warm, his cat a comforting weight on his chest.  There’s still an hour before he needs to be at the symphony hall, which means he could stay in bed for an extra fifteen minutes, or he could get a hot drink on the way to work.  Eventually, very maturely, Keith drags himself out of bed holding his cat, Red, against his chest as he collects his clothes for the day.  Red burbles sleepily, used to the routine of Keith getting dressed one-handed while using Red as a portable heater.

Dressed, Keith sets Red down on the bed and covers her fluffy orange body with the still-warm blanket.  She settles immediately, tucking her nose under her paws and closing her eyes with a purr.  Keith consoles himself for leaving his warm bed and warm cat by getting a burning-hot cup of hot chocolate at the Dunks nearest his apartment and rushing to the T, hunched in his thick winter parka against the wind.  Even though he should get off at the Symphony stop, Keith still rides the T all the way down to the MFA to see Shiro despite the loathsome cold.

There is no violin playing when Keith gets off the train.  Worried, Keith crosses the street to the front of the MFA to find Shiro there, sitting bundled up on one of the benches with his equipment beside him.

“What’s wrong?” Keith immediately asks, startling Shiro.

“Keith!” Shiro stands up and Keith sees the problem right away.  Shiro’s right arm stays locked in place across his body.  He sees Keith looking and responds, “the cold got to my arm.  I can’t move it.”

“It’s your whole arm?  I thought it was just your hand.”  Keith readjusts his grip on his hot chocolate, trying to massage feeling back into his numb fingertips.  Shiro shakes his head.

“All the way up to my shoulder.  At least it’s not my left, or I couldn’t play at all, but this isn’t that great either.  No elbow, no wrist, no playing.”

“Sounds like you need a better arm,” Keith jokes, trying to lighten the mood.  Shiro gives a slightly strained smile.  “Or a hot drink.”

And at that moment, Keith realizes two things:  he’s a horrible dolt, and he has a perfectly hot drink right in his hands.  He thrusts the cup towards Shiro suddenly.  “Here, it’s hot chocolate.”

“Oh, uh, thank you.”  Shiro takes the drink, sighing as its warmth floods his left hand.  He holds the cup against his right elbow, waiting for the robotic joint to thaw.

“I hope this won’t cut into your livelihood,” Keith says, for lack of anything better to say in the cold silence between them.

“My livelihood?” Shiro repeats.  “Oh, oh, no.”

“No?”  Keith forces himself to stop there before he puts his foot in his mouth again.

“No,” Shiro chuckles.  “This is a hobby.  I just moved here and I’m job searching, but I have an apartment in Jamaica Plain and some pretty good savings.  Former Boeing test pilot, y’know.”

Keith’s world swirls around him, a tangible realization dancing just at the edge of his mind.  “Pilot?  I always wanted to be one when I was little.  I love flying.”

“I used to, too,” Shiro admits.  “Not so much anymore.”

Keith almost asks why, but then he kicks his dumbass brain into gear, puts two and two together, and refrains from asking.  “How did you get into violin?”

“My brother used to play, I took it up when he left home because it reminded me of him.”  Shiro’s tone is light, but Keith detects something heavier under the surface.  “What do you play?”

“Piano,” Keith responds instantly.  Of course Shiro knows he’s a musician, but Keith hadn’t ever talked about his music before.  “I'm the only pianist for the BSO; it’s pretty good though. There’s a strings and piano ensemble we’re preparing for the holidays and I get some pretty sweet solos in it.”

“I’ll have to come by and see it.  When’s the concert?” Shiro gives Keith that heart-melting warm smile again that Keith can’t help but return.

“Just after Christmas.  I can’t remember the exact date, but I’ll find it for you,” he promises.

“I’d like that.  Have a good rehearsal, Keith.  And thanks for the hot chocolate.”  Shiro unbends his right arm to give Keith a parting wave.

 

That becomes their routine for the next week:  Keith bringing a hot chocolate to Shiro to help with the frozen robotics every morning before rehearsal.  They talk longer each morning, neither minding the cold for the company of the other.  Shiro tells Keith about piloting experimental planes, about the crash that took his arm.  Keith tells Shiro about wanting to fly when he was younger, about how worried he was when he woke up in the middle of one night with his whole destiny flipped upside down.  They talk about school.  They talk about their friends, Keith complaining about how meddlesome Pidge and Lance and Hunk are. 

The morning of the auditions for the string ensemble, Keith brings two hot chocolates and passes one to Shiro, taking a seat on the bench beside him.  “Auditions today,” Keith says.  “I’m interested to see who I’m going to play with.”

“Any ideas?” Shiro asks, holding his hot chocolate against his elbow as usual.

“Probably Lotor for violin.  He’s our concertmaster.  Maybe Reyner for cello, she’s really good… it all depends on Coran, though, he makes the final call.  I’m just the accompanist for the auditions.” Keith sips his hot chocolate, trying to funnel as much warmth into his fingers in anticipation of a hard day of playing.

“Hopefully you end up with a good group,” Shiro says.

“Thanks.  I should really go get warmed up early.”  Keith stands, giving a little wave to Shiro, and sets off to the concert hall.

Inside, it’s warm and quiet.  Since it’s an audition day, the full orchestra doesn’t have to be present, which means no Hunk, Lance, or Allura.  Pidge is sitting in the middle of the auditorium and gives Keith a salute when he mounts the stage.  He salutes back and warms up quickly before Coran comes out to greet him.

“Keith!  I thought we’d start the auditions with cello, then viola, then violin.  We’re playing the first page of this song as the audition piece, looking for compatibility with you.”

“Sounds good,” Keith agrees, cracking his knuckles as the first cello steps onto the stage and arranges her music in front of her. 

 

The auditions blaze by, with Reyner picked as the lead cellist, a violist named Regris backing her up, a second violin played by Nyma, and small groups behind them.  Then when Coran calls for Lotor, the only one auditioning for the role of principal violin, and nobody comes onto the stage, an unsettled feeling lodges in Keith’s gut.  Coran goes backstage to try to hunt Lotor down and comes back empty-handed.

“Does anyone know where he is?” Coran calls to the few musicians backstage and Pidge out in the audience.

“I’ll text Axca, she generally knows where he is,” Pidge volunteers, pulling out her phone.  She taps at it for a moment, then appears to give up, and raises it to her ear.  The conversation is too quiet for Keith to overhear, but Pidge looks shocked, to put it mildly.

“What is it?” Coran asks the moment Pidge hangs up.

“Lotor was extradited to Russia,” Pidge says blankly.  For a moment, nobody reacts in the dumbstruck silence.

“Wait, what?” Nyma breaks the silence first.

“Axca said she’d give more details at the next full rehearsal,” Pidge says.  “But Lotor’s definitely not going to be auditioning.”

“Who is going to be the principal violinist?” Coran asks, turning to the ensemble on the stage.  “…Nyma?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she hedges.  Keith knows that she’s a great player, but doesn’t like the spotlight.  Coran deflates slightly.  Then an idea strikes Keith with the force of a train.

“Coran, I know someone who can audition,” Keith blurts, bolting up from the piano bench.

“Where are you going?” Coran shouts after Keith as he sprints from the concert hall.  Keith tears down Huntington towards the MFA heedless of the cold, the sound of Shiro’s violin growing louder over the panting of his own breath.

“Shiro!” he shouts breathlessly.  Shiro opens his eyes, shocked, and tapers off the note he was on.

“What’s wrong?” Shiro asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.  Keith doubles over, hands on his knees, pulling air so cold it burns into his lungs.

“Principal violinist didn’t make it to audition,” he pants, “need you to audition.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Shiro cringes.

“Listen to me,” Keith straightens up, instinctively reaching to put a hand on Shiro’s arm.  “You are _good._ Really good.  I know you can nail all the songs we’re playing; you’d get paid.”  Shiro still doesn’t look convinced until Keith makes one final appeal:  “I’d really love to duet with you.”

Some of the conflict fades from Shiro’s face.  “Okay.  I’ll audition.”

Keith can’t keep the victorious smile off his face.  “Come on, let’s go.”

 

When Keith bursts into the concert hall again, Shiro in tow, Coran immediately rounds on him with “where the blazes did you go?”

“Coran, this is Shiro, he is a _very_ talented violinist here to audition for the principal role,” Keith responds without missing a beat.

“Well then,” Coran adjusts himself like a pigeon ruffling its feathers after being surprised.  “Shiro.  Here is the sheet that we have been having everyone sight-read for the audition.  Keith will be your accompanist.”

“Thank you,” Shiro accepts the music from Coran and steps up onto the stage with his electric violin still in hand.  He casts a glance about him and Nyma catches on, rushing up to trade him her acoustic violin.  His bow stays fixed in his robotic hand.  Keith watches, breath held in his chest, for Shiro to center himself.  Shiro’s eyes flick over to Keith’s and he gives the smallest nod.  Keith blows out a deep breath and sets into the song.

Shiro comes in just after Keith begins, right on cue, but Keith can tell immediately something is wrong.  The notes aren’t nearly as fluid and quick as they usually are; Shiro even crosses strings on a few bars which has Nyma and the other violins behind him cringing sympathetically.  It’s nothing like how he played for Keith those mornings in front of the MFA; it’s almost like a different player altogether.  Keith plays on, plowing through the page of music with Shiro trailing in his wake.  When they finally reach the end, Keith is almost scared to look at Coran’s reaction.

“Er, well, thank you, Shiro, for auditioning…” Coran says diplomatically into the grave silence.  Keith dares to look at Shiro.  His whole posture is crushed, face lined with frustration as he stares down at his right hand and nods.

“Thank you for having me,” he says robotically, returns Nyma’s violin, and climbs down off the stage.

“Shiro—wait!” Keith leaps after him, catching his right arm as he passes by the piano.  The metal is ice-cold under Keith’s fingers, even though the insulating layers of clothes overtop.  “It’s your arm, I know you can play better than that,” Keith pleads.  Shiro’s mouth draws into a tight line.

“I know it too, but your conductor doesn’t, and we can’t just ask him to trust that I’m decent,” Shiro says all too rationally.

“Please, give me a minute, I’ll work on Coran.  Don’t leave.  I _know_ you have to do this.”  Keith’s own conviction surprises him, but he feels it on a bone-deep level.  Shiro _must_ play this duet with him.  As if reading Keith’s mind, Shiro softens, a small smile coming to his lips.

“Okay.”

Keith dismounts the stage and jogs over to Coran, who seems to be conferring with Pidge.  “Coran,” he calls.

“Keith, I appreciate the effort, but—”

“You have to give him a second chance,” Keith cuts Coran off.  “Trust me.  I know how well he can play.  He’s got a prosthetic arm and it’s too cold to play properly.  Shiro needs time to warm up; you didn’t let the others audition without warming up—give Shiro a chance, too,” he implores.

Coran twirls his mustache.  “You’re not wrong…  But I need to make absolutely sure this Shiro of yours is fit to represent the Boston Symphony Orchestra in concert.  You know how high our standards are, Keith.  I will allow him a second chance after his arm is warm, on one condition.”

“Thank you,” Keith breathes, even though he hasn’t heard the whole deal yet.  Coran holds up one finger.

“He must play the whole song, including the solos, with your accompaniment.”

Keith looks over his shoulder at Shiro.  The man is standing tall with a determined look on his face, he nods firmly in agreement.

“We’ll do it,” Keith promises.  “Pidge.”

Pidge looks up and nods, knowing her expertise is needed.  Together they sweep Shiro backstage into one of the practice rooms.  Shiro sheds his coat and sweatshirt, rolls up his right sleeve as far as it’ll go, and pulls off the black leather glove on that hand.  Keith marvels at the prosthesis a moment, having never truly seen it.  The robotics underneath are intricate and spidery, covered mostly by black plates that mimic a forearm, fingers, and biceps.  Every delicate piece of metal is exposed on the wrist and palm in a way that looks like tendons laid bare.

“This is pretty sweet,” Pidge says appreciatively.

“You know about mechanical prostheses?” Shiro asks, an eyebrow quirked.

“My brother and father are engineers at Boston Dynamics, I work in their lab part-time.  You could say I know a little something.” Pidge adjusts her glasses with just a hint of self-satisfaction.

Shiro nods, grinning.  “Then let’s get to work.”

Pidge turns to Keith like a surgeon in an operating theater, holding her hand out expectantly.  “I need your phone charger and anything hot you can give me to warm the fluid synapses and liquefy the lubricant in the joints.”

Keith jumps to, fumbling in his briefcase for his charger, before running to the bathroom.  He runs the hot water tap until it steams then bolts into the kitchenette nearby and grabs a fistful of plastic bags, filling them with the piping hot water.  By the time he returns to the practice room, Pidge has somehow MacGyvered Keith’s phone charger into something that’s attached to Shiro’s wrist.  Wordlessly, Pidge accepts the bags of hot water and presses one into Shiro’s hand, holding the others against his forearm and elbow.

“If you come by my lab next week, I’ll see if I can’t fix this freezing issue for you.  Living in Boston is going to make that problem a nightmare because really, fluid synapses only work in California,” Pidge says to Shiro as she fiddles with the mechanics of his wrist.

“Thanks, I’ll take you up on that.”  Shiro flexes his fingers around the bag of water in his palm, testing out the thaw.  “I’ve gotten some pretty good tips on living here from a very friendly local.”  He winks at Keith, putting a fierce blush on Keith’s face.  Pidge doesn’t miss it and raises a mischievous eyebrow but says nothing.

After a few minutes of technical talk, Pidge asks Shiro how his arm is doing.  She takes the water away and disconnects Keith’s charger.  Shiro fans his fingers out and moves them in patterns, touching fingertips and stretching them individually, making Keith wonder if those were movement tests from when Shiro first got the prosthetic.

“Now try it with the violin,” Pidge instructs, handing Shiro his violin and bow.  For the first time watching Shiro play, he doesn’t have to use his good hand to fold his robotic fingers around the bow.  Instead, he reaches out and takes it as naturally as one would with a flesh and blood hand.  Shiro puts the bow to the violin and plays out something horrible and rasping and quiet, which Keith realizes is because the electric instrument isn’t plugged in.  Nevertheless, Shiro seems pleased with it.

“Give me the music and let’s do this.”  Shiro gives Keith a determined smile that makes his heart flutter.  Then Shiro reaches out and catches Keith’s hand, and it’s such a natural motion that it almost doesn’t register as new to Keith.

“Let’s do this,” Keith smiles back.

They take the stage with confidence, presenting a unified front.  The full sheet music for the song is already on the music stand in center stage, Nyma ready with her violin for Shiro.  They take their places and center themselves, then Coran gives the nod to Keith to begin.

[Keith opens the song with a solo, gentle soprano notes cascading around him like raindrops.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYEooPeyz5M) In the real performance, the violins and violas and cellos will form a supporting swell around him, deep strings elevating the high, delicate notes of the piano.  Then Keith moves into the baritone notes of the piano, dropping back to play with the cellos, to become part of the support that will be the backdrop for the violin solo.  Shiro slides into the song at this point, picking up the melody gradually with clear notes.

Keith’s heart jumps into his throat as he plunges into the bass range of the piano, falling away almost entirely as Shiro takes the solo.  The music arcs off his bow in bright ribbons, sweeping victoriously through the concert hall.  It steals the breath from Keith’s lungs; he almost forgets to play when he looks over at Shiro, who is lost in the music.  His brows furrowed, eyes fixed on the page in front of him, his fingers flying across the neck of the violin and his bow spearing through the air with the finesse of a fencer’s rapier—the sight of Shiro hits Keith with a nearly physical force, ramming one all-consuming thought through his head:  _he is my soulmate._

Shiro plays so beautifully it’s easy to forget this is the first time he’s ever seen the music.  He and Keith trade the melody back and forth in a series of solos so fluid, it seems they were born to play with each other.  And, in a sense, they were.  Just now, for the first time, Keith is realizing _this song_ is the one he heard in his dream nearly a decade ago when his destiny changed.  He dreamt of _this very moment._ Piano and violin mingle, their voices becoming a unified whole, as Keith and Shiro glide into the final movement of the song together.  Keith catches Shiro’s eye and his whole body feels electrified by the love he sees held in that gaze; his fingers stutter and then slow on the final notes of the song until all that’s left is the quavering of the air around them with the last sounds of their music.

Clapping jolts Keith out of his trance like emerging from deep sleep.  He looks around blearily to find the rest of the ensemble and Coran and Pidge on their feet applauding him and Shiro.

“I think we’ve found our new principal violinist!” Coran cries, then dabs at his eyes.  “That was spectacular!  Your chemistry is unlike any other!”

Wordlessly, Keith jumps at Shiro, throwing his arms around the taller man’s neck.  He manages to restrain himself a few moments longer while the ensemble greets Shiro properly, but the moment introductions are done, Keith drags Shiro off the stage into a more private area and pushes him up against the wall.

“You’re my soulmate,” Keith says, voice frayed by the overwhelming amount of raw emotions crashing through his body.

“I am,” Shiro agrees softly, bringing his warm left hand up to cup Keith’s cheek.  The expression on his face is almost unbearably soft, his eyes shining in the low light.  Keith’s face feels hot, tears pricking at his eyes.

“How long have you known?”  Keith presses his palms to Shiro’s broad chest and leans into the embrace of the robotic arm around his lower back.

“Since you sang for me outside the MFA,” Shiro whispers, drawing closer to Keith.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.  I had a feeling from the moment I saw you, but when you sang, I knew I’d heard your voice before in a dream.”

“I think I knew I loved you instantly,” Keith confesses, “but I dreamed of us playing that song together.  _You’re my soulmate.”_ Keith stops himself there, tears streaking down his cheeks.  It feels so _right,_ so _complete._ It was always meant to be Shiro.  Always.

“I’ve loved you since the moment we were born,” Shiro breathes against Keith’s lips.  Keith stands on his tiptoes, the boost just enough to press their lips together in a perfect, teary, salty, wet kiss.  Liquid satisfaction and electric love flood Keith; he wraps his arms around Shiro’s neck to pull him closer still. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Keith murmurs.  They draw back enough to see each other’s faces and laugh softly when they see they’re both crying.  Keith tucks his head beneath Shiro’s chin, pressing himself tightly against Shiro’s chest.  Shiro puts his arms around Keith and that moment feels like home.

The sound of footsteps approaching forces Keith to look up right as Pidge steps into view.  She looks confused, then her expression relaxes and she puts her hands on her hips.

“We’re soulmates,” Keith says in a watery voice and he can’t help the huge smile that cracks across his lips.

“No shit,” Pidge says fondly.  “Whenever you’re done, Shiro, Coran wants to talk to you about the concertmaster position.”

**Author's Note:**

> The deeper inspiration for this fic comes from an old Homestuck fic I read probably about five years ago that had a similar format and plot and introduced me to the magic of the Vitamin String Quartet. I've never been able to find it again, but it really made an impression on me and I still love it a lot, even though my memory of it is hazy at this point. I hope you enjoyed the story and the music!


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